For the Sake of Freedom
by kaydi
Summary: In 1917, The USA is drawn into the first world war, and Racetrack must decide how much he is willing to give up for the sake of freedom, including the life of his own child.
1. Introduction

Intro to For the Sake of Freedom

There are a few points I want to make clear before the story. 

First of all, there is the disclaimer. Evil things, these are. They remind us that no matter how hard we wish, Race could never really be mine. *sigh *

Then,  I should say that this is a story that takes place seventeen years after the strike and centers mainly on Racetrack and the family he has built. It would be a good idea if you read A Game of Life before hand, just to get a background on the characters, such as Race, and Vinnie. But it's not really necessary. I think it could stand on it's one, but like I said, it would be pretty helpful if you did. 

            One other thing I should say. This story is about World War One. It is not supposed to be a happy story or have a happy ever after ending. It is very true, and it happened to far too many people. I know, it happened to my Great Uncle. 

            In a way, that is who Vinnie is based on. But Vinnie is a character in his own right whom I have come to like a lot.    This story has a simple message about war. 

            War is not pretty, it is not glorified, but harsh and cruel and brutal. It makes no distinction between races or religion, between class or color. It kills any and all. Vinnie is young but that does not save him from the horrors of war. 

            Like I said, this is not meant to be a happy story, but a story that tells the true story of what war was like in 1917, both in the trenches and on the home front. 

            To get an even better idea of what the trenches were really like, I would recommend All Quiet on the Western Front. A great book, yet very sad. 

            I'm starting this story with a poem by a man called Wilfred Owen. A very promising young man who was killed in the trenches only a few days before peace was declared. This is from a site about the poets of WW1

** Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) **

**Wilfred Edward Salter Owen was born on March 18, 1893. He was on the Continent teaching until he visited a hospital for the wounded and then decided, in September 1915, to return to England and enlist. "I came out in order to help these boys-- directly by leading them as well as an officer can; indirectly, by watching their sufferings that I may speak of them as well as a pleader can. I have done the first" (October, 1918). **

**Owen was injured in March 1917 and sent home; he was fit for duty in August 1918, and returned to the front. November 4, just seven days before the Armistice, he was caught in a German machine gun attack and killed. He was twenty-five when he died. **

**The bells were ringing on November 11, 1918; in Shrewsbury to celebrate the Armistice when the doorbell rang at his parent's home, bringing them the telegram telling them their son was dead.**

This is a poem he wrote to tell the true story of what happened during WW1

**_Dulce Et Decorum Est_**

_Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,  
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,  
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs  
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.  
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots  
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;  
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots  
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.  
  
GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,  
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;  
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling  
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--  
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light  
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.  
  
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,  
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.  
  
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace  
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,  
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,  
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;  
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood  
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,  
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud  
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--  
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest  
To children ardent for some desperate glory,  
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est  
Pro patria mori._


	2. War!

For the Sake of Freedom. 

************************************************** 

_The Sixth of April, 1917. _

            "Pop!"  Racetrack Higgins dropped the brush he'd been using when his sixteen year old son burst into the stable and almost ran over several stable hands in his haste to meet his  father. 

            "Whoa, whoa, Vinnie, slow down dere. Where's da fira?" Race asked jokingly as Vincenzo Higgins  reached out to pet the large mare his father was currently training. 

            "Didn't ya head, Pop? We're at war!"  And he brandished the pape, blaring the single word headline, **WAR!**

Race took the pape, studying it carefully before handing it back to his son who had quickly sold ten papes to the other workers in the barn. He didn't like this, he thought, remembering another war long ago in his own childhood. He too had been sixteen, but remembered it well. he'd sold lots of papes during that time. 

            "Ain't dis  excitin?" Vinnie began to say as his father put away his brush and led the horse back to his stall.  Then he put his arm around his son and they set off for home.  

            "We'll win, a course." Vinnie said, as they walked. "but ain't it gonna be great, ta see dem off?  God, I'd love ta be one a dem." He said, as they passed several men already suited up for their long trip overseas. Race frowned. 

            "Don't even dink bout it. Youse sixteen, too young for anydin' like dat. Besides, who would help me take cae a yer little sisters and brudda?" he asked, with a smile as they reached their apartment house. 

            "Aw, Pop?" Vinnie moaned good-naturedly. Race laughed and pushed open the door to their apartment. 

            "Get ready." Vinnie braced himself which was lucky as the next moment two girls and a boy launched themselves at their father and brother. 

            Race laughed and picked up Dino, the youngest boy, about twelve years old and full of energy. He began talking the moment his father walked in the door about his adventure of the day. Jack Kelly, Race's best friend and idol to the little Dino, had taken the kids to Brooklyn for the day. Jack was a photographer, a good one and spends many days in the slums of New York where he and Race had grown up. 

            Race laughed to himself as the second eldest, Marina began to tell him about her day. She was the only one still in school, besides little Zaira, and reminded Race so much of his friend, Davy. She had decided a long time ago that the only way out of the slums of New York was an education.  She was not happy to remain there, like her father and brothers. She wanted more, so much more than what she had and often scolded her father, telling him he could be so much, what with his talent with horses and than that book, written almost nine years ago, that had sold nation wide, and made him quite famous. But Race always insisted that he was happy where he was. There was no reason to leave. But Marina was destined for greater things. Everyone could see it. 

            Vinnie was busy with the youngest, Zaira, nine years old and already an actress.  She was the melodramatic baby of the family, telling stories and acting them out, playing all the parts.  She was loud and determined to be heard. 

            These five people made up the Higgins family.  They seemed happy and together, but every once and a while, someone would glance up to the far wall above the small table and see the picture taken many years ago, by Jack.  Framed and fraying with age, it showed two young people, a much younger Race, and a beautiful young woman, with long flowing red hair and a pair for crystal clear blue eyes. They were gazing at each other, with nothing but love shining out of their eyes. 

Vinnie often stared at it, wondering how his father could have changed from that happy loud mouthed but fun loving man he was in the picture to the sober, quiet, yet content man he was now.  He remembered his mother very little, but he knew she had brought out something in his father, something no one else could.  Still, they were happy. 

**********************************************************************************

That night, Vinnie found himself on the rooftop, waiting for his best friend. He smoked the cigar nicked from his father's bedside and waited; patiently shuffling the cards his father had given him for his birthday only a month ago. After long last, he heard footsteps behind him and turned to greet the single son of the Kelly household and his best friend into the whole world, Anthony Kelly, or Snickers, 

"Hey Snicks." He said, holding out his hand. He spit in his hand and they shook.  Anthony grinned at him. 

"Heyya Cards," he replied, conjuring his own newsie nick.  "So whut yer old man say?"  Vinnie smiled. 

"Same ding as yers, probably. Too young, he needs me 'era."  Anthony nodded. 

"We are sixteen." His friend said, " When dey wus sixteen, dey wus on strike. Dat wus war in a way. Besides, we should be able ta make our own decisions." Vinnie nodded, well aware of what his father had been doing at sixteen. 

"It's our chance. Our chance ta do somedin' right, ta save da woild from injustice and tyranny." Vinnie said, meaning every word.  "Dey would a' done it, so why can't we?"  Anthony nodded and soon the talk turned to other things, but the idea still remained fresh in each boys mind.

**********************************************************************************

September 13, 1917

Almost five months had passed, each day dawning with a new headline and a new step of determination. Vinnie watched jealously as Les Jacobs joined up and was shipped out, almost all of New York coming out to see him. 

That night he brought up the war again with his father.  The younger children were in bed and Race was cleaning up, doing the chores that would have belonged to Mrs. Higgins had there been a woman alive to claim the name. Vinnie sat at the empty table, dealing the cards for their nightly game of poker.

It was their time to talk, to stay in touch, their private time as father and son. It was a time that was special to both of them. It usually took place on the roof, but as it was raining, it would be indoors tonight. 

Race sighed as he watched the rain come down. It was right that it would rain tonight. He'd had an awful feeling as he waved to Les, who leaned out of the train window to bid his friends a final goodbye. This war could only bring pain, and he knew the feeling of pain all too well. Hadn't he lost his parents at nine, his wife only nine short years ago?  Hadn't his whole life been one series of injustices after another?  He had claimed his philosophy at the age of sixteen when he told Les, one night as their world seemed to crumble to bits, " The woild, it ain't kind ta kids like us.  Life ain't eva easy fer us, no madda whut we do. But ya gotta make da best a it, ya gotta play da hand ya get." 

When he turned and sat down at the table, the last thing he wanted to discuss was the war.  But the moment Vinnie cleared his throat, Race knew what was coming. 

"Pop?" Vinnie asked as he glanced up from his cards. Race lit h is cigar and looked at him. "Ya know, a bunch a guys from da lodgin' house, dey's joinin' up.  Dey want me ta too."  Race just shook his head. 

"No, we've been ova dis, Vinnie. Fer one ding, youse ain't eighteen.  Fer anudda, I ain't given up me son. I don't cae whut anyone else is doin'." He said, waving aside Vinnie's protests, " I made a promise ta meself when I wus sixteen. Dat me kids wus gonna be bedda den me.  Dat  youse weren't gonna go trough da pain and sufferin' dat I did. And sendin' ya off ta war ain't exactly keepin' dat promise." 

"Pop,  I'd be doing somdin' great! I'd be protectin' America gianst' evil!" Race shook his head.

"I saw men come home afta da Spanish American War and dey looked like dey'd been ta Hell and back.  I ain't lettin' ya go trough dat. And dat's final. Now deal." Vinnie sighed and began to shuffle.  Soon the war was all but forgotten as the two smoked their cigars and laughed.  Race felt safe, secure, for once, a feeling he'd experienced very little in his short life of thirty-four years.  Vinnie laughed in much the same way he did as he displayed a full house, beating his father for the first time in a week.

 Race watched him carefully as he redealt, his dark brown eyes focused solely on the task of shuffling. He was so intent, so dedicated. When he got an idea in his mind, you couldn't shake him off it, making him so much like his father. That worried Race, what with this war and everything, but Vinnie had never deliberately disobeyed his father. He knew that his father loved him and his siblings, and would and had done anything for them. 

Vinnie glanced at his father who frowned over his cards, feeling strangely guilty. Part of him wanted nothing more than to reassure his father that he would keep his word that he had no reason to worry.  Race had done so much for him and his siblings. He had given up a promising career as a jockey to stay  home and take care of them. Oh, they had their troubles, but they were a family and that was important. 

But this was something so much bigger, so much bigger than that, than anything. And he wasn't missing it. After all, he was sixteen, and look what Race had been doing at sixteen. Fighting for something he believed in, fighting to free the oppressed children of New York from the horrible labor conditions. His father was a legend down at the distribution office.  and people expected great things from Vinnie. He was, after all, the son of Racetrack Higgins. And Vinnie was determined to live up to their expectations. He was full of idealistic thoughts and just bursting to do something great. This war was his chance. 

But not tonight. Tonight was about him and his father. He laughed as Race told him a story about one of the newer jockeys down at the stables where he worked. Here he felt so comfortable, so safe.  The moon rose over their game, but they played long into the night, laughing about everything. 

It was the last time the two of them would ever sit at the same table again. 

**********************************************************************************


	3. Truth

**************************************************************************** ******  
  
  
  
  
  
Two nights later, Race was shaken awake by Dino's frantic voice. He groaned and rolled over, mumbling to himself.  
  
"Pop! Pop, get up!" Dino shook him again. Race opened his eyes to glare at his son.  
  
"Whut?" he moaned.  
  
"It's Vinnie! He's gone!" Race was up in an instant, out of bed and rushing into the small children's bedroom beside his own. Sure enough, Marina and Zaria were up and clinging to each other, staring at the empty bed in the corner. Race stumbled to it and ripped the covers aside, finding no Vinnie, but only a note.  
  
Dear pop,  
  
I'm sorry to do this, but you always taught me to do what I think is right. I believe that I belong over there. I can't just sit here and do nothing while people are dying. You know how I feel, I know it.  
  
I have to do what I feel is right, Pop. I don't want to hurt you, or Dino, or Marina, or Zaira. But I have to. If you were sixteen, you and Uncle Jack would have been the first in line.  
  
All my life, you've told me about how you stood up to the oppression you suffered. Well. I'm going to make sure others are freed too. Please, don't be mad, Pop.  
  
Love,  
  
Vinnie.  
  
  
  
Race let out a shuddering breathe. No, no this can't be happening, he thought. How could Vinnie do this? How could he? In an instant, Race thought of something and grabbed his pants, rushing out of the apartment and down the stairs to his best friend's apartment.  
  
He pounded on the door, caring little for the hour, but needing to know. It was a good while before a comatose Jack answered the door, glaring at Race through sleep-blurred eyes.  
  
"Race? Wha?" his voice was low and mumbling. Race ignored it.  
  
"Jack, Vinnie's gone." he said, making it final by speaking the words. Jack frowned.  
  
"He's probably on da roof." Race shook his head.  
  
" He's gone. He and Snickers. Dey're gone." Jack shook his head.  
  
"Anthony's safe and sound and asleep. Like you should be." Race shook his head again.  
  
"Go look. Go and see if yer son is dere." Jack rolled his eyes, but beckoned his friend inside, before disappearing into his children's room. Race waited what seemed like forever, even when Sarah, Jack's wife, left the bedroom and inquired about his presence. Race told her what he'd told Jack and she frowned.  
  
Jack burst out of the bedroom, a look of horror on his face. In his hand, he held a scrap of paper, much like the one Race still clutched in his own. He slumped at the table, hardly noticing his wife or terrified daughters, who entered the main room. Race shook his head, biting his lip hard and vanishing back upstairs.  
  
Once back in his own apartment, he took his little girl, his little Zaira, and held her close. Marina took her father's hand, feeling so helpless. Dino watched, wishing he'd done something, wishing he'd made more of an effort when he woke up and saw his brother close the window behind him.  
  
**************************************************************************** ******  
  
November 4, 1917.  
  
Stars lit up the sky as the Higgins family crowded on the roof. Dino held Zaira on the ledge so she wouldn't fall, as Marina talked with Shannon and Brianna Kelly, jacks two daughters, ages fourteen and ten respectively. Race was smiling for the first time in a long time as they wandered down afterwards. He and Jack shared glances as the Higgins family went into their apartment.  
  
"Pop, whut is it?" Dino asked, jumping up a and down. Race smiled, reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter. It was mud stained, frayed and dirty, but the handwriting sent the Higgins children into fits of joy.  
  
"It's Vinnie!" Dino hollered.  
  
"Is he coming home?" Zaira begged. Race laughed and ripped open the letter.  
  
"I dunno, I ain't read it yet."  
  
"Papa, don't say ain't. It sounds so common." Marina said, scolding her father. He laughed.  
  
"I'se been sayin' ain't since before youse wus born. I ain't stoppin' now." He said, grinning, "Now who wants to hear whut Vinnie has ta say?" a chorus of cheers erupted as Race unfolded the letter. To his surprise, out fell several scraps of paper.  
  
One was a small postcard of the beach, a French beach, and on the back was written, To Waves, you should see the waves they have here.  
  
Then came a picture of Vinnie and Anthony, dressed in full military dress, and waving merrily at the camera. They seemed perfectly happy. That one was for Zaira.  
  
Lastly there was a picture of a man, with a cowboy hat on, doing a fancy rope trick, for Dino. The children's face's lit up and Race smiled.  
  
Dear Pop, Marina, Dino and Zaira,  
  
Hello, I hope everyone's fine. Again, I want to say I'm sorry, Pop, but I was right. This place is amazing. I'm in France, but I can't say where. Orders in case the mail is intercepted. Sorry.  
  
I've met boys from all over, from America, and England, like Ma, France, and even some from Italy! Thanks for insisting that I learn Italian, Pop, it came in handy.  
  
We've seen some scattered action so far. We're in encamped in a long trench and the Gerries are just over the ridge. Every once and a while, someone will throw a shot and there will be some scattered fighting, but mostly, we just sit here.  
  
Give my love to everyone and tell Dino, Marina, and Zaira, that I love them. Please write back, pop. I could use some news from home.  
  
Your loving son.  
  
Pvt. Vincenzo Higgins  
  
  
  
**************************************************************************** ******  
  
December 1, 1917.  
  
Vinnie pulled his helmet down over his dark brown eyes, sighing deeply. He wished for home and his own warm bed, to hear his father laugh and to see his father's face light up when he came home,  
  
But still, he was here and it was what he'd wanted. When he'd first arrived, things had been much different. But now they were in their third month encamped in these Goddamned trenches. Anthony was speaking to the Captain at the moment, wanting to know when the mail would arrive. He'd gotten two letters from Jack and his family already. Of course, the first had been furious, how dare they run away, how dare they disobey their parents, but the last had been softer, more heartfelt, and both boys had felt homesick for days.  
  
Now Vinnie just felt sick. This was nothing like he had hoped. He'd been looking for the best of humanity and found the worst. Two days ago, he'd seen a new boy, only stationed there three days, be shot down under the fire of those new and deadly repeating rifles as he tried to help a dying comrade. There were no heroes here. Only death. Death in its cruelest and most brutal form.  
  
He'd wanted to save the world, but from what? What was there to save at the end of the day? Nothing. The world was so much harsher, so much crueler than he had ever seen. How could civilized humans do this to other humans? He slumped against the mud wall, forcing him not to think about what was buried only inches from his back, and to pretend that the flash of pale pink in the mud wall was only a trick of the light and not the hand of a once living human.  
  
His father had been right, more right than Vinnie could have ever imagined. He should have listened, should never have come. His father had seen so much more of the world than he had, so much more pain and heartache. He warned me, Vinnie thought, he warned me and I didn't listen. Why did I listen? Why did I come here? What can one boy do? One boy can do nothing when ankle deep in mud and filth and blood. When he's fighting over his foot with the rats and the lice. When he sits in a deep layer of mud, blood, and human bits.  
  
He shuddered violently as someone shoved past him, stumbling up the steps over the trench. There came the fire of a gun and a sick thud. Vinnie closed his eyes, not seeing the man fall back over the edge of the trench and stare, with empty eyes, at nothing. No one noticed.  
  
All around him, men sat, waiting the inevitable. The trench was muddy and only an hour ago it had been filled to the knees with water. Vinnie had written in his letter about the different men they'd met, but he didn't say that many of those men were now dead, or as good as, wandering around like lost souls, waiting to live, waiting to die, waiting, just waiting. Their eyes were empty, empty and glassy, no memory of the men they had once been. Fathers, brothers, sons, all gone in the flash of an exploding shell.  
  
Vinnie slipped his hand inside his coat to feel the small book in his inner pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it. The Game of Life, by R.A. Higgins. A simple paper back, but with much more meaning to Vinnie than any Bible. The Higgins children had never been brought up with a firm belief in God.  
  
Race had determined as a child that God cared little for street rats like himself and rarely prayed. Victoria, Vinnie's mother, had been a devote believer, but with her death, so died any faith Race might have acquired. Vinnie had agreed with his father on this subject.  
  
A raindrop fell on the book and Vinnie quickly pushed it inside once again, keeping it safe from the rain. He rubbed his eyes and lugged his gun over his shoulder, moving through the trenches to greet his friend.  
  
Anthony smiled when he saw him. At least they still had each other. Vinnie opened his mouth when suddenly a voice called out above them.  
  
"Mail Call!" A British captain jumped into the trench, not even wincing as his boots planted hard in the mud. In his hands he held a large packet of letters. Anthony and the other boys hurried forward, but Vinnie did not. No one had written to him yet, and he doubted they would.  
  
"Kelly!" he smiled for his friend as Anthony ripped open the letter from his parents. At least he would know what was happening.  
  
"Higgins!" his head jerked up. He was the only Higgins in this trench, but it couldn't be him. His father wouldn't write to him, would he?  
  
"Higgins, get your arse over here and get your letter!" Vinnie leapt to his feet and all but snatched the letter from the captain who smiled at him, knowing exactly how the young American private felt. Vinnie ripped the letter open to find two pages of sloppy handwriting, spelling atrocious, and ink blotted, but Vinnie had no trouble reading it. He was used to his father's limited education.  
  
Dear Vinnie,  
  
I hope you are doing as well as we are. You have no idea how relieved I was to get your last letter. And the kids are thrilled now that their brother is some big hero. They couldn't wait to go to school and tell everyone that their big brother is off in the war.  
  
But I do have to say, that as proud as I am, just be careful, Vinnie. I don't want to loose you. The Martians below us just got one of those horrible telegrams a few days ago. Please, Vinnie, don't let me get one of them. That is all I ask.  
  
Your loving father  
  
Racetrack  
  
The next two pages were from Dino, and Marina, and Zaira. Vinnie smiled as he read them. he could almost hear their voices scrambling to tell him every detail.  
  
But his father's plea struck his heart hard. He wanted to come home, to come home so bad. But he couldn't. Not now, not while his friends were dying here. He just couldn't.  
  
Vinnie sighed and took out the book, folding the letter carefully and slipping it into the book, making sure that they were both safe and sound. It was his last link to home.  
  
Suddenly, there was a horrible wail, and men everywhere dropped to the mud covered ground, Vinnie included. In a second of fumbling, he attached his gas mask, covering his face as the shells began to fall. He saw, through the pale greenish lenses, men fall back, struck by something they would never see. He saw men, who hadn't gotten their masks on in time, clutch at their throats and begin to flail around, was fling their arms for some kind of pity, for anything to make it stop. But Vinnie made no move.  
  
He held on tight to his gun, unmoving, unwilling. It was always horrible and he had learned not to look. But today, he did. He watched as the attack lessoned and men jumped to their feet, leaping out of the trenches to cross No-Man's Land, only to be mowed down by German machine guns. These dreaded guns rattled on both sides. Against them, a man stood no chance, allied or not. The machines didn't care. All around him, shells fell and exploded.  
  
The cries of men were drowned out by the roar of those dreaded planes, from both sides, bombing the hell out of the other side. Vinnie closed his eyes, trying got block the sights and sounds, just before seeing the horrible yellow gas, blanket the ground.  
  
He leapt to his feet and began to run. Anything to get away from that gas. To stay was to die. In his rush, he stumbled over men, dead and dying, friends and foes. The gas cared little for the individual victims. It only needed human lives and it took them in the most gruesome way possible.  
  
A shell blast hit only feet from Vinnie and he was blown away. He landed on something soft, but only covered his head, trying to block the blast. He was shaking, shaking so hard.  
  
Finally the roar of the planes died away and instead, the air was filled with the voices of men, men dying, or dead, or crying for those lost. They were the voices of men, no of boys, boys crying for help, for water, for mother, for death. Boys who had no purpose dying on a battlefield meant for men. Each horrible wail blended with one until the air was filled with the cries of men, echoing across the empty fields where once flowers had bloomed.  
  
Vinnie took a deep breath and lifted his head to find himself face to face with a body. It had been what he had landed on. The man's leg was gone, but his face, from what little Vinnie could see, was pale, with blood still streaming from his lips. Vinnie leapt away, grimacing at the sight of the gas victim. But slowly, he reached back to turn the man over.  
  
At the sight of the bloated, blood covered, mud stained face, Vinnie gave a sob. He let out a long shaky breath, unable see as tears clouded his vision. Slowly, he reached into the man's pocket and pulled out the letter that was sticking out of it. it was unposted and recently written. He tucked it into his pocket and walked slowly back to his trench, stumbling over the bodies of men.  
  
Anthony was waiting for him and Vinnie closed his eyes, tears falling steadily now as he told Anthony what had happened. Soon, both boys were crying.  
  
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December 25, 1917.  
  
  
  
Race sighed as he placed the small presents on the table and waited for the small explosion of noise that would come from the children's room any second. It was a Higgins family tradition to put the presents on the table in front of the person's selected place. Race's eyes drifted to the empty places at the end of the table and to his right. There was a time when all four places had been filled. But now they sat, empty, casting a dark shadow over this festive holiday.  
  
Personally, Race had had little experience with the joy of Christmas. When his parents had been alive, there had been little enough money to go around anyway. And as a newsie, the older newsies would always pool their money and buy something for the little ones, some candy, maybe a top or some other toy. One year, the entire boarding house had worked together to buy little Crutchy a coat for the cold winter.  
  
Race loved to be able to buy small things for his children. A new hat for Dino, a new set of pencils for Marina, and a pair of tickets to a small theatre in Soho for Zaira. He'd had Medda pull a few strings for those. It gave him a great joy to see the faces of his kids as they had so much more than he ever had.  
  
But Vinnie, Race had sent a new pack of cards to his son in hopes that they might keep him occupied during his encampment. His son's letters were nothing short of enthusiastic, but Race had noticed that the tone had changed. His son was seeing things too horrible to write home about, he was sure. And he felt horrible for not being firm enough.  
  
This would be their first Christmas without Vinnie. Race just hoped it would not become a pattern.  
  
  
  
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January 18, 1918  
  
Vinnie ducked the shell, and threw himself face down in the mud. Inches away, a comrade fell, screaming as the shrapnel forced its way into his body. Vinnie winced as the man fell silent, though nothing else did.  
  
Above him, planes roared, dropping their deadly cargo onto the opposite sides trenches. Men from both sides swarmed from their trenches to cross the deadly no-man's land, and be gunned down by the horrible machine guns.  
  
Vinnie began to crawl back to his own trench, caring little for the mud that now soaked his uniform. It was better than blood anyway, though he was sure there was more blood on that field than mud.  
  
Another shell hit near by and Vinnie was almost thrown headlong into another body. He resisted the temptation to get to his feet and run for it. To do so was suicide. The instant he got to his feet, someone would gun him down, and if he ran towards his trench, his own men might shot him down. He'd seen it happen. Guns rattled around him as he crawled, inch by inch, ignoring the dead and the dying.  
  
Suddenly one of the shells hit only feet away and Vinnie was thrown back, stumbling into a ditch. He slammed against the ground hard, and covered his eyes, before the blast died away. Then, quickly he began to check himself for injuries.  
  
He breathed deeply in finding he was safe and sound. There was no wound, no shrapnel imbedded in his skin. He was alive and unharmed.  
  
But a noise behind him made him spin around. To his horror, he found himself face to face with another man, who had found shelter in the same crevice. His uniform was mud covered and blood stained, but Vinnie could still see the German design under the filth.  
  
The two stared at each other for the longest time, each unwilling, and perhaps unable to move. Then the man mumbled something in German. Vinnie frowned, knowing not one word of the man's language. The man glanced nervously downward and Vinnie followed his gaze. Then he jerked away. The man's leg was mangled and bloody, almost not even there. Only tattered bloody strands hung from where his leg had been.  
  
Vinnie's face grew pale and he drew away, backing against the mud wall. He saw the man reach to his side and grab his gun, a small hand held revolver. Vinnie took a deep breath, swallowing hard.  
  
His own gun, a large Tommy, had long ago lost any ammunition he had, and was a dead weight on his back. He had no bullets, no weapons, nothing. This man, this wounded German had both.  
  
The man's eyes were wild, almost like a wounded dog Vinnie had once seen in the streets cornered by a pack of others. It's fur stood on end and it growled even though it was doomed. This man lifted the gun and pointed it straight at Vinnie, his eyes so much like that dogs, so much like an animals.  
  
The man leveled the weapon in between Vinnie's eyes and paused. The deep blue eyes of the German looked directly at the dark brown of the American. For Vinnie the world had paused and the two of them were all that existed.  
  
Then the man let out a sob and dropped the gun. He covered his face with his hands and sobbed. Vinnie paused, his fear gone and replaced with sudden sympathy.  
  
From the moment he had stepped into that base, he had been told, hate the faceless enemy in the other trench. They are the faceless evil. And suddenly that enemy had a face. A tearstained heartbroken blue eyed face. He took a tentative step forward and put his hand on the shoulder of the enemy.  
  
The German looked up at him, and took the gun. Slowly, he handed it to Vinnie and pointed to himself. Vinnie frowned as the man shook his arm and begged for something in his own language.  
  
"Sorry, I don't undastand." He said.  
  
"Beenden sie bitte es. Machen sie bitte das schmerz ende." He begged again, while Vinnie paused. The man pointed to the gun and then pointed to his head and Vinnie began to understand. He dropped the gun and stared at the man. Upon close examination, Vinnie saw that the man was not really a man, but a boy. A boy much like himself. The boy reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter. He pressed it into Vinnie's hands before motioning again to the gun.  
  
Vinnie could see that the boy was in pain and he'd seen enough to know that he wouldn't make it. it would be so much less painful.  
  
"I'm sorry." He whispered. Then he picked up the gun, pointed it, and turned his head.  
  
The shot rang through the now silent field, and forever ringing in the mind of one boy who would never be a child again.  
  
  
  
**************************************************************************** *******************  
  
December 6, 1917.  
  
Race laughed as Sarah began to franticly order Jack to fetch more ribbons, more tinsel. Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs were sitting at the table, watching the children, as Davy, home from his job out west as a reporter in the city of San Diego, sat with little Dino on his lap.  
  
The event was going to be big, with all the old crowd. Most were there in the old restaurant Tibby's already. Ex-newsie, Kid Blink, as he was still known, owned the place and often opened it to his old friends.  
  
That night was to be a celebration, a remembrance of old times, when there was no war, and the newsies were all they had. But it became much more.  
  
The party was well underway, as the night came on. Clouds began to cover the once clear sky and rain threatened. Race frowned at the idea of walking home in the rain, but shrugged it off and went back to showing Zaira how to play poker with his old friends. Mr. Jacobs watched with an amused smile from his seat next to Race.  
  
"I learned a new song taday, Papa." Zaira chirped. Race laughed and shifted her.  
  
"Let's hear it den." The little girl smiled and opened her mouth. The whole restaurant fell silent, waiting to hear the girl's angelic voice.  
  
"Keep the home-fires burning,  
  
While your hearts are yearning,  
  
Though your lads are far away  
  
They dream of home;  
  
There's a silver lining  
  
Through the dark cloud shining,  
  
Turn the dark cloud inside out,  
  
Till the boys come home."  
  
When she had finished, there was scattered applause and not a dry eye in the place. Race swallowed hard and hugged his little girl, thinking of his first-born son, and where he was that night.  
  
At first, no one noticed the messenger until he cleared his throat. Then, one by one, all eyes turned to him. Race's eyes quickly went from the man's face to the small envelope in his hands. It was strange how such a small thing could cause so much terror in so many people.  
  
He shook his head, nonononono. Not Vinnie, please let it not be Vinnie, he prayed. Please, I'll do anything, but don't let it be Vinnie. The man began to make his way down the isle, glancing at each horror stricken face.  
  
"Not Vinnie, please, not Vinnie, not Vinnie," Race began to whisper. Spot Conlon glanced at his friend next to him and realized he'd never seen Race so frightened as he held tight to his little girl and whispered faintly. He prayed for Race's sake, it wasn't his son.  
  
"Is there a Mr. Mayer Jacobs here?" Race let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Mr. Jacobs stood up, looking strong, but Race could see the old man's hand shaking as he took the telegram. The man looked apologetic but vanished as soon as he could.  
  
David stared at the small envelope as Mrs. Jacobs began to cry. Mr. Jacobs ripped it open and once he'd read the first line, he let it drop to the floor, taking his wife, son, and daughter in his arms and all of them cried softly.  
  
Race did not notice them, only watched the telegram float to the ground, softly, as if time were suspended. It settled on the chair, the chair, Race realized, in which a much smaller much more innocent boy had sat not so long ago. He could see the boy, smiling and laughing, his papes under his arm and his innocence inspiring the rest of them.  
  
That boy was dead, dead in some field in France, so far away from home. So far away. Dead. Gone, never to speak again, never to become the man he might have been. Just a boy, like so many others.  
  
Race buried his face in his hands and cried.  
  
  
  
**************************************************************************** ******  
  
  
  
  
  
October 21, 1918.  
  
Vinnie closed his eyes, listening to the deadly roar around him. It all seemed so far away. He could no longer feel his leg and he didn't want to look to see it.  
  
The shrapnel had come from nowhere and as long as he stayed where he was, he might just live. He could feel the rats running by him, and still he did not open his eyes. There would be nothing to see that he hadn't already seen.  
  
Finally silence settled over the valley and it was worse than the noise. It was the sound of death and Vinnie hated it. Finally he opened his eyes and saw that night had fallen.  
  
Now, if he was careful, he could make his way back to his trench, only ten feet away. Slowly, he dragged himself back, his wounded leg a dead weight.  
  
When he reached the edge, hands reached up to help him, to lower him to the ground and wrapped dirty rags around his wounded leg. He was lifted to his feet and helped to wobble though the maze of trenches to a few steps and to a small makeshift building, used as a hospital.  
  
There he was lowered to a cot and waited. Anthony smiled down at him, his own arm covered in his friend's blood.  
  
"How ya feelin'?" he asked. Vinnie shrugged.  
  
"Alright. It ain't too bad." Anthony shook his head.  
  
"Nah, you'll live." Then he got to his feet and summoned the attention of a doctor. The doctor came over. He was a young man, French with a young boyish face that would have been handsome had it not been so grim, so tired. He hated this war, hated telling men they'd never see their homes, their mothers, fathers, wives, and children.  
  
But this young man was different. He gave the doctor a grim smile and kept his hand on something inside his jacket. The doctor rolled up his sleeve and shook his hand.  
  
"Dr. Vincent Du Bar." He said, in his passing English.  
  
"Private Vincenzo Higgins." Vinnie replied. "I ain't so good wid French, sorry." The doctor shook his head and bent over to examine his leg. He sighed in relief to see only a shrapnel wound. Carefully, he cleaned and wrapped the wound. Then he turned back to the pale young man.  
  
"Congratulations, private Higgins. You're going home." Vinnie stared at him.  
  
"Whut?" he nodded.  
  
"You're going home. A wound like this is grounds for a discharge. I'll get the general to make up the order tonight. Sleep and rest well. You'll be on the next boat home." Then he was off to check on a man two bunks over.  
  
Vinnie smiled, not seeing his friend in front of him, not seeing several soldiers carry a wounded man inside, his legs gone and screaming in pain as he died right there in the hospital room.  
  
He opened his eyes, watching as a man was dragged in, fresh from the home front, and bloodied already. His friend had hoisted him over his shoulder and dragged him in as the man's legs were totally blown away. Blood was streaming from the bloody mangled stumps where healthy long legs had been only an hour ago. Blood coated the young man, running from his mouth as he moaned.  
  
"Please doc," his friend begged. "do something." The doctor nodded, then reached over to Vinnie.  
  
"Do you have your gun, soldier?" Vinnie nodded and handed it to him, turning his head from the sight he knew was coming. The gunshot echoed across the busy surgery, silencing it for just a moment. Even the dying ceased their wails. The doctor handed the gun back to Vinnie who stared at it, then threw it to the ground. It landed beside the weeping friend as he clung to the tattered remains of his friend.  
  
"I'm sorry. "Vinnie whispered. The man lifted his strange blue eyes and looked at Vinnie. "He woulda died anyway, and a lot moa painfully. Trust me, it's bedda dis way." the man looked at him.  
  
"He was my brother, my twin brother. You have any brothers at home?" Vinnie nodded.  
  
"I gots a younga brudda, he's only twelve." The man nodded.  
  
"You're going home, aren't you?" Vinnie nodded.  
  
"It ain't soon enough." The man nodded.  
  
"Say hello to Lady Liberty for me." Vinnie smiled.  
  
"I will." The man took the ruined body, and drying his eyes, carried it into the room beyond the hospital, where no one ever came out of alive. The door closed behind him and there was another gun shot, this one worse than the first.  
  
Vinnie winced, but a second later, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Glancing back, he noticed an older man who smiled gently at him.  
  
"He's in a better place, far from all this." The man's voice was soft and kind, with a British accent. Vinnie nodded and the man stuck out his hand. Automatically, Vinnie spat in his hand and reached to take the offered hand, only to realize. Blushing, he wiped off his hand and shook the older man's hand. It was an old habit and had caused several raised eyebrows from his British, French, and Italian comrades. Even other Americans thought it odd, until he had met a boy from Brooklyn who returned the gesture with zest.  
  
"Davis Hartford." The man said, smiling again at Vinnie.  
  
"Vincenzo Higgins." Vinnie replied. Davis looked at him, Vinnie was sure, because of his name.  
  
"Two very contrasting names, are you Italian?" he shook his head.  
  
"American. Me pop was half Italian and half Irish. Dat's where da Higgins comes from."  
  
"Your father? You're going home, aren't you?" Vinnie nodded, smiling wistfully.  
  
"Can't wait. Me pop's gonna be waitin' fer me and I just wanna go back home." Hartford smiled, just the same as Vinnie.  
  
"I know the feeling, boy. I'm going home too. I can't wait either, my wife just had our third child, a boy, two days ago. She's waiting for me to come home before naming him. " He dug into his vest before pulling out a small wrinkled photograph of a pretty young woman, smiling gently. Vinnie grinned and took the picture, studying her.  
  
"She's a real doll. Whut's her name?" he asked, handing the picture back. The man smiled gently at the still life like of his wife.  
  
"Victoria." Vinnie smiled too.  
  
"Dat was me ma's name." He said quietly. Hartford looked at him, smiling too. There was something he liked about this boy, something in the American's manner. It wasn't rude or obnoxious like so many other Americans. The accent was a challenge to understand sometimes, but once you got passed it, you had a brave and enthusiastic young man who had seen too much pain and just wanted to get home to his father.  
  
Vinnie had reached into his own pocket and pulled out a photograph taken only a few days before he'd left. It was his family, his father, brother, and sisters, all proud all happy. Race sat in the middle, Vinnie beside him, his hand on his shoulder, Dino stood beside Vinnie and marina was on the other side. Little Zaira was seated on her fathers lap, beaming at the camera.  
  
"Your family looks wonderful.' Hartford told him. Vinnie gazed longingly at the picture, as if the smiling faces were not frozen in time, but waving merrily back at him. he longed for home so much.  
  
"Yeah, dere's great. I mean, my pop, he didn't want me ta come. But all I had ta do was remind him what he was doin' at me age."  
  
"What was he doing?" Vinnie smiled. He was always proud to tell people that his own father had been one of the instigators of the 1899 strike.  
  
"Ya eva hoid of da newsie strike a' 1899?" the man nodded.  
  
"Yes, in fact. Stirred up quite a bit of trouble, they did. And my wife read an interesting book a few years ago about the newsies, written by one of the former strikers." Vinnie nodded.  
  
"Me pop was part a all dat. He was one a da Lowa Manhattan newsies. Jack Kelly, da leada, he's me pop's best friend. We all call him Uncle Jack."  
  
"What's your father's name?"  
  
"Racetrack Higgins." Vinnie replied, waiting for the familiar look of disbelief that always accompanied newsie nicks. Though he could never remember anyone calling his father by his real name, including his mother, who preferred Race to Anthony.  
  
But Hartford stared at him, mouth wide open. Then he shut it and smiled. He reached into his bag and pulled out the same battered edition Vinnie kept close to his heart.  
  
"Your father is a fine good writer. Let me guess, you're the Vinnie he mentions." Vinnie nodded.  
  
"I was jist a kid at da time, but yeah. He wrote jist afta ma died." A scream echoed from behind the curtain that served as the operating room, and interrupted their conversation. Vinnie winced and shook his head, turning away from the horrors.  
  
Hartford sighed. "The sooner we get out of here," he whispered, " the better." Vinnie nodded. It had been his wish since he had spent that first horrible night in the trenches, since he'd encountered that first enemy soldier in the ditch, since he'd crawled out of his window that night so long ago.  
  
Vinnie shut his eyes, and forced himself to ignore the horrors around him, the moaning of the man beside him, the screams of the men in the "operating room," makeshift curtains which hid the sights, but not the sounds, and thought of home.  
  
If he thought hard enough, he could see his father's face when he stepped off the boat, little Dino as he leapt into his arms, Marina's usually so calm and collected manner fall apart as he took her in a hug, and little Zaira as he came home to them all.  
  
He was going home. "Home." He whispered, the word never having so much meaning. Never holding so much hope. He held his father's book close to his chest, closing his eyes and whispering the word. Home.  
  
  
  
**************************************************************************** 


	4. Never an Absolution

Before we begin, I should say one thing. You will all hate me after this chapter. ;) but it was necessary. Thank you for the reviews, and guess what. I have another story I'm working on that is almost done!

_In Flanders Fields_

In Flanders fields the poppies blow  
Between the crosses, row on row  
That mark our place; and in the sky  
The larks, still bravely singing, fly  
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

**_We are the Dead. Short days ago  
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,  
Loved and were loved, and now we lie  
In Flanders fields._**

Please read, review, and remember.

October 28, 1918. 

Race sat at the Kelly's table, smiling. Little Zaira was twirling around the room, her arms out to catch herself and singing one of the old songs Medda Larkson, an old friend of the family, had taught her. 

He felt happy; smiling had been a rare occurrence since the death of Les.  He remembered the funeral, feeling so strange when they lowered the casket into the ground, and seeing the ground swallow up the young boy he had known so well. 

But he shook his head, refusing to think of it now.  There was talk of peace now, after four long years. And maybe if there was talk of peace, then the end was drawing near. He heard the headlines everyday, each a new tale of victory, their troops were finally gaining ground. 

There was a knock at the door as the postman dropped off the post. He smiled when he saw the Higgins's crowded around the same table.

"Perhaps I should just give you your mail here, Mr. Higgins." He said, handing Jack the mail for both families.  They laughed and Jack closed the door, laughing gently.  He shifted through the letters then his eyes lit up. Grinning, he handed a letter to Race.

Race's heart leapt at the handwriting on the dirty envelope and he ripped it open, his children gathering around him.  He began to read it. 

**Dear Pop,**

**You'll never guess what! I'm coming home! I was wounded; nothing serious I should say before you have a heart attack, just some shrapnel in my leg. But it's bad enough to send me home.  So I'm on the next boat home.**

**God, I can't wait. There is so much I want to do. I want to see my little sisters and brother, and to tell them everything.  To tell them about all the people I've met, all the things I've seen.**

**I want to go see all my friends, all of them, and tell them how much I missed doing simple things with them. I want to find some girl and settle down and get married, like you and ma.**

**Mostly, I want to sit down at the table and shuffle the cards with you, play just one more hand, as we laugh and talk about things I could never talk about with anyone else. You have no idea how much I missed those nights, almost more than anything, pop.**

**There is so much I want to say; so much I need to do. I'm sorry, pop, for leaving.  You were right. So right. This war, it's not a place for boys. I have seen so much, pop, so much. I'm not a boy anymore; you couldn't be after what I saw.**

**I miss you, pop, more than I can say. Can't wait to see you all.**

**Your loving son**

**Vinnie.******

Race brushed away the tear that drifted down, and smiled. Vinnie was coming home.  The children looked happier than Race had ever seen.  Their brother was coming home! Vinnie was coming home. Then, maybe, he could get on with his life. 

"Race." Jack's voice was barely above a whisper. Race turned to him, the smile still on his face, but the joy he felt at his son's letter died instantly at the sight of the small envelope in his friend's hands. He sighed, poor Jack. Anthony now joining Les.

"I'm sorry Jack." Jack shook his head, wiping tears away. 

"No, Race. It's ain't fer me." Race's heart leapt into his throat and he jumped to his feet, shoving his chair back and holding on tight to the letter from his son. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to hear, even as Jack pressed the telegram into his hands. 

He dropped it as if it burned him.  The world was spinning.  One word flew through his mind. 

"No, no it can't be. Not Vinnie." Jack took a deep breath, his voice already hoarse. 

"I'm sorry." Goddamn those words! They held no meaning, no emotions, spoken out of lack for anything else to say. 

"No!" Race shouted. "Vinnie's comin' home! He's comin' home! He said so!" He shook his son's letter.  "He's not! He can't be! He's comin' home!"  

His breath was coming in sharp gusts now, what little air he could get into his lungs at all. He shook his head, refusing to look at the small paper that had just ended his world.  

"No, nonononono! He's comin' home," the sobs were audible now, as tears streamed down Race's face. His children watched, unsure and frightened, having never seen their father like this. 

"Race, buddy, I'm sorry. But it is addressed ta you." Jack said, trying to break through to his friend. Slowly, he pressed the letter back into Race's hand. Slowly, Race ripped it open and unfolded it. 

Then he let out a sob and dropped it, his courage failing him. Jack picked it up and began to read. 

**Dear Mr. Racetrack Higgins,**

**We regret to inform you that your son, Vincenzo Higgins, was killed in action on October 23, 1918.**

Race let out a quiet sob. So that was it. After all that, that was all they had to say. That was how they tell you your son is dead. Just like that, your son is dead, have a nice day.  

Slowly, his legs refused to support him and he slipped to the ground, sobbing. Zaira climbed into his lap and he held her tight, rocking her back and forth.  Dino and Marina fell in beside their father, silent tears on all their faces.  

Race's chest shook, god, why? Why a good boy like Vinnie? Why promise to bring him home and then snatch him away again.  God, my son. Race's arms tightened around his remaining children as if to make sure they were there, that they would not slip away from him as well.  Jack and Sarah could do little for their friend, as he cried. 

Race shook his head through his tears. Why? Did someone up there hate him? Why did they keep taking his family from him?  It wasn't fair! God, it wasn't fair!

"Papa, why did Vinnie have to die?" the small voice only sent him over the edge and Race cried as he had only cried once before. 

**********************************************************************************

****

November 3, 1918.

There was something final about burying someone, Race had decided long ago. Once they're in the ground, they aren't coming back up. It was almost like a closure, giving just a bit of absolution to the grieving. 

But not when the casket you are lowering into the ground has no body.  Vinnie's true grave was hundreds of miles away, in some field in the north of France. His body, among millions of others, was somewhere in a place where his family would never find it.  So the grave given to the Higgins family was empty. 

Race stood by the grave and watched as the priest began to say his part. Tears, silent, salty, and hot, rushed down his face, never stopping, never ending, just always coming. 

The fresh grave had been placed next to that of his wife and his parents, but there was something very different about this burial. It had no meaning, no sign of closure or end. No way to cease the grieving.  His son had died for nothing, for nothing! And he wasn't even allowed to properly bury the boy in his hometown next to his mother or his grandparents. No, Race wasn't allowed that luxury, he wasn't that lucky.  

Some folks got their sons back, all Race got was an empty box. A coffin with no body, a letter with no sympathy, a promise with no chance of fulfillment. 

**********************************************************************************************

November 26, 1918. 

            Crowds covered the London docks on that foggy morning, anxious to see the first boys home from the war.  Parts of the area were crumbling from wear and tear of war, but the people ceased to notice. It was over and it was time for the men to come home. 

            And come home they did. From all parts, they returned, very different men than they had left. War makes one grow up very fast. And even the youngest were now older than their time. 

            For many men, it was a relief, an end to the horrors of war. To come home and move on, to pick up their lives and get on. But others would forever be changed by the things they saw and the people they met. And one man would always remember the  boy who gave up his life so that he might see his son. 

            Davis Hartford stepped off the boat as the rain began to fall.  It started as a light drizzle and then began to pour. The crowds on the dock waved and cheered as their boys returned, waving hats and handkerchiefs, ignorant of the fact that the boys they had sent away were returning old men.  They took little notice of the rain.  Hartford saw little save one face in the crowd with long blond hair and bright green eyes. 

            She ran to him, throwing her arms around him and kissing him hard, forgetting herself for a moment as her husband was returned to her. After the kiss, the two clung to each other, holding each other, simply so relived to be back in the arms of the one they loved. 

            When they drew apart, oblivious to the scenes around them all identical, the woman waved her arm and a smaller woman in a shabbier cloak came forward, a small bundle in her arms. The man took the little baby and smiled as the child waved his arms and legs. 

            He looked at the child's deep brown eyes  and smiled. 

            " We waited for so long for you  to come home.  He needs a name." She said, brushing back a long curl of dark hair on the baby's head. Hartford nodded. 

            "I know just the name."  He said, his eyes misty, as he remembered a not so long ago and a boy who was so much more than he seemed.  " His name is Vincenzo."

*****************************************************************************************

 December 24, 1918.

Race wanted nothing more than to run away, run and hide from the inevitable. He didn't want to see Jack get his son home, be able to hold him and kiss away all the pain, all the suffering. He didn't want to see Jack get what he never would. 

But he was here, on Christmas eve, their second Christmas without Vinnie, being a "good friend," here with his family and a fake smile plastered on his face,  hiding emotions he could never express. He'd never been jealous of Jack, never in all their years as friends, since he was ten years old. Never once had he envied his best friend, but now he did. Now he wished for the one thing Jack had that he didn't. His son. 

The two months had done little to soothe the pain he had felt when receiving that little slip of paper that had destroyed him once again.  He pretended to go on, went back to work, took care of the children, but he didn't laugh. He didn't joke with the kids, didn't  smile. His face remained cold, and every once and a while, tears would well up in his eyes as he thought of something Vinnie would like to see or do, then remember he was not coming home. 

The train had pulled up long ago, and soldiers were still pouring out. Race watched them, still hopeful that maybe, just maybe, he might see a familiar face in the sea of those who had left boys and returned men older than their time. 

"Pop?" Jack whirled around at the voice and took his son in his arms. Anthony held on tight, wrapping his arms around his father, and holding on as he hadn't since he was a small boy. He did the same to his mother and his sisters. 

But then, he saw the father of his murdered friend.  Tears flooded his eyes as they hadn't since that dreadful day. He wrapped his arms around the surprised Racetrack and sobbed.

Race patted him on the back, but then held the boy close as he sobbed and whispered two words, "I'm sorry." 

They took him home and put him to bed, Jack lingering just to make sure he was truly home. Race went upstairs and stared at the bed, which had remained empty for so long. There would be no boy home from the war sleeping in that bed. That boy was sleeping forever in a field somewhere in France, never to return.  Race curled up in the bed and let the tears fall, trying his hardest not to wake the children. 

********************************************************************************************

December 29, 1918. 

Race sat at the Kelly table once again, once again facing something he did not want to know. Anthony had agreed to  tell them how Vinnie had died, provided that they never ask anything about the war again. 

Race could see the change in the young man. He was pale and thin. His hands shook often and loud noises sent him into a panic.  His eyes, once so full of light and the same spark of mischief that had twinkled in his fathers, now shown no more. They were glassy, and empty, the windows to his soul shut tight.   His voice was soft and like a child's,  needing comfort and guidance. A year in the front lines had reduced the proud young man to a timid  frightened boy. 

Anthony began, taking a deep breath and no doubt wishing he was anywhere but here. 

"It wasn't anything bad, nothing life-threatening." He said, his voice soft, but no one even moved so he was heard as if he'd been shouting. " Just shrapnel. We'd seen it a million times.  I took him to the infirmary myself. He could walk, though not well. The doctor who examined him, told him he could go home and I'd never seen him so happy. The first thing he did was ask for a pen and paper so he could write and tell you."

Race drew in a deep breath. " I went back to my barracks, and promised to visit him the next day. I didn't want to leave him there. It was horrible, men being dragged in on stretchers, in all sorts of conditions. Some, like Vinnie," his voice choked on the name, " had only minor wounds and were shoved to the side, not even given beds, as those were needed for the more critically wounded, waiting to be sent home or back to the frontlines. Others, died right there in the hospital room, before the doctors could even look at them.  Some were missing limbs, some clinging to the arm that had been blown off, or screaming in pain, from the great gaping wounds on their bodies. I saw one man come in with half his head blown away. He was still alive, but couldn't scream. He couldn't make more than a few moaning noises before they shot him out of sympathy.  Shot him, like you shoot a horse! Right there in front of everyone. And we just turned our heads and looked the  other way." 

Whatever Race had been expecting, this graphic depiction was not it. But Anthony continued as if not anther soul was in the room. He was reliving every moment, every horrible image burned into his young mind. 

"But it was better than the  battlefield, up to your knees in mud some days, in blood others, fighting with the rats and lice for food. Seeing our friends blown apart or worse, fall victim to the gas." 

"The gas?" Jack asked. 

"It's like a silent killer, a green and deadly mist, drifting in to settle in the mouths of the men unlucky enough to have not gotten their masks on in time.  Suffocating them, making blood pour from their mouths in painful bursts. It was the worst way to die, because  no one could help you. They stood by and watched as the gas claimed you, dragged you down into darkness." He took a shuddering breath and Race could hear the bones rattle in the boy's chest. 

"I was to take Vinnie down to the boats the next day, to be shipped home. But that night there was an attack and when dawn came, the hospital was in ruins.  I tried to go there, to dig through to rubble, see if he was alive, but I was stopped. There were still men alive in there, they said, but the deadly gas was taking its toll and no one could do a thing."  

Race stared at him.  He'd always thought Vinnie had been shot, or died of his wounds. Was he, instead, a victim of that horrible gas?

Anthony began again, " When the gas had cleared, they let us search. The first person they found was Vinnie. He was alive, but only just.  The gas had taken its toll on him and he died while we tried to drag him from the rubble.  He couldn't even say a word, not even to tell me his last wish, and he couldn't hear me for me to say I was sorry.  He just held my hand and I cradled his head in my arms as he died." 

Tears were running down Race's cheeks now, soaking the front of his shirt, but he didn't notice.  Anthony's face was wet, but his eyes were blank, so strangely dull, as they had been for so long.  

"He had given his mask to a another man, an older man who we pulled out next. He lived. But Vinnie didn't."  He reached into a small bag by his side and pulled out a battered mud stained book, all too familiar for Race, who took it gingerly. 

" He died holding it. He died, wanting to go home." Race nodded and held the book tightly to his chest, as the boy's voice died away. It was all he had left. 

That night, after the children had been put to sleep, Race sat, all alone. The night was dark and rain was pounding from the sky in angry torrents, drenching the word with its tears.  

Peace, Race thought, peace had been declared. But two weeks too late for Vinnie. And what had he accomplished? What had he saved? Nothing. The world was worse for the damn war then it had been to begin with, and now, he wondered, how many men like him were sitting up, waiting for sons who would never come home?

Slowly, he poured himself a glass of brandy and lit a cigar. He pulled out the small book, as if it were all he had in the world. As he gingerly opened it, he saw letters. 

Gently, he took them out, opening them, and reading. They were the letters he had sent to his son, folded and refolded so many times, falling apart from wear and too much reading. There was a picture, a picture taken just before Vinnie had left, of all of them.  Race looked proud and happy as he wrapped his arm around his eldest son and his youngest daughter.  Vinnie was grinning happily, the youth and idealism still shining in his eyes as they had all his young life of seventeen years. 

Race chocked back  a sob as he downed the small glass of brandy in one go. Seventeen years. So short, so little time to do anything he might had done. What had he done in seventeen years? At seventeen, Race had fathered a son, and it had been the best thing, the thing that held the most meaning, the most power for him.  It was the thing that brought the most joy. 

Vinnie would never know that joy.  He would never know what it was like to take your first-born baby in your arms and know absolute and undying love for something that was so much a part of you. He would never know how strange it was to want to do anything for such a tiny little thing, a wrinkled wet thing that cries and sleeps and refuses to keep to everyone else's schedule of sleep, and yet never love anything more. He would never know what it was like to want to do anything to make that baby's life better than yours, and to know you had failed. 

Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the frayed and dirty pack of cards the army had had the decency to ship home along with his clothes.  He ran his hand over the tattered pack, hearing a faint distant laugh echoing in the stillness of the apartment. 

He shuffled them slowly, imagining the last time Vinnie had done such a thing. Then he began to deal. One card at a time, until he had two piles, one at each end of the table.  Swallowing hard, he picked up the cards and looked at them.  

Tears were streaming down his face as he held the tattered cards in his hands. He watched them shake as his hand shook, but focused his eyes off the empty seat in from of him, a seat that would never be filled. 

            He sat, waiting, waiting and staring. Perhaps the night would get lighter, he thought. But in truth, it was only beginning. 

For Racetrack Higgins, life would never be easy, it never had been, but many more things were to come in his life. Things that would shake the very foundations of everything he had rebuilt, and every time it seemed things were looking up, the world would come crashing down. 

But Race knew none of this. He cared as little for the future as he did for the present, and feared living the rest of his life like he had started it, alone. 

It had seemed things had changed, but really they hadn't. The world had many horrors in store for people like Race and all they could do was wait. 

Race sat at the table late into the night, as if waiting for something to happen, or someone to walk through the door. Someone who was never coming home. 

It was true; they were in a better place, a place without pain or suffering. A place in which they could breathe clean fresh air and live happily in peace.  And watch as their loved ones suffered the heartache the separation caused. 

The morning dawned gray and dreary, a light rain sprinkled the ground, covering it in misty tears. People began their day, moved on. But in a tiny apartment on the riverside in Lower Manhattan, a man sat at a table, knowing he could never move on. 

The world began again, recovering from the war, to start a new day. But for Race, and millions like him, that didn't matter. That day would never dawn. What those millions needed, what they were looking for was an answer, an absolution that would never come. 
    
    **Anthem for Doomed Youth**
    
    **What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?**
    
    **Only the monstrous anger of the guns.**
    
    **Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle**
    
    **Can patter out their hasty orisons.**
    
    **No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,**
    
    **Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, --**
    
    **The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;**
    
    **And bugles calling for them from sad shires.**
    
    **What candles may be held to speed them all?**
    
    **Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes**
    
    **Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.**
    
    **The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;**
    
    **Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,**
    
    **And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.**


End file.
